


All in the Past

by pokey_jr



Series: The Yeehaw Chronicles [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption, Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: Angst, Cunnilingus, F/M, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-16 20:08:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16501925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokey_jr/pseuds/pokey_jr
Summary: “I thought you were dead!” You blurt, instead of the thousand other things you’d stored up to say to him. That you’d been real sweet on him for a while, that you’d missed him terribly,He shakes his head. “Bad business down in Saint Denis. And Blackwater. Valentine too, and—“ he stops himself. “Everywhere, really. That’s all in the past.”





	All in the Past

“We’re closed—“ You look up hearing the door open, then have to set your needlework aside. “Arthur Morgan?”

“Evenin’ miss.” He shuts and latches the door behind him, as if he’d only stepped out to check on his horse.

A year ago, he’d been a fixture about town every couple of weeks, coming through to sell hunting spoils and enjoy a whiskey at the saloon. Never bothered anybody, except when they bothered him first. Every time he came to your tailoring shop to have his clothes mended and his socks darned, he had asked you to sit still—no, stiller than that, stop your head moving, darlin’—so he could sketch you working.

Even though you always told him it would take a while, he could come back later. He stayed for a bit, never in too much of a hurry for a long afternoon with you.

Art seemed a strange pastime, at least for a man in his line of work. He never would show you the drawings either.

“I thought you were dead!” You blurt, instead of the thousand other things you’d stored up to say to him. That you’d been real sweet on him for a while, that you’d missed him terribly.

He shakes his head. “Bad business down in Saint Denis. And Blackwater. Valentine too, and—“ he stops himself. “Everywhere, really. That’s all in the past.”

He _does_ look worse for wear. The clothes you’d last sent him off in must have long since disintegrated; you recognize only a patterned scrap of a shirt you’d once sewn him, now tied around his neck as a bandana. He stomps snow off his boots just inside the threshold, and removes a woven poncho that looks to your eye like a Wapiti garment.

What _had_ he been doing this year? Something you’ve learned in his absence is that those involved in the profession of crime often can’t be bothered to be gentle, even if they are kind. The kindness manifests other ways. You had used to be able to catch a softness in his eyes when he was preoccupied with sketching, a clear-eyed longing.

He takes off the sheepskin vest and hangs it, along with his hat, on the stand by the door.

“I was about to turn in for the night,” you say, by way of prompting him to divulge more than a few place names.

He is taciturn, except to request some whiskey. You sit with him, both of you sipping from glasses, and the silence gradually settles around you until it’s comfortable and warm, though it takes a while.

Sitting there so close, he seems uneasy, cautious and distant like a wild animal, though still intense. You take the time to watch him, really look at him.

His grown-out beard obscures half of the lines that web his face. He fills the spaces in the silence with some answers, and gets out his journal to sketch. 

One year gone has aged him more than that. A year of privation and violence, and, you gather, loneliness. Words keep catching in his throat as he tells you stories of where he’s been. His voice grows deeper and more gravelly as the fire dims. 

He still won’t let you see what he’s drawing. 

At last it’s been quiet for long enough, and the horrible thought that he might leave and not come back again strikes you. “Arthur, why are you here?”

He takes something from his satchel and places it on the table. “Was hopin’ you could mend this for me.” 

A child’s toy. Your heart drops. 

“His name is Old Bun. Belongs to a boy, son of a friend.” He stands up and goes to the hearth and banks the dying fire with two logs. That’s the kind of man he is. Generally helpful, and practical, and quiet unless he has something to say. 

You’d missed him terribly. You have plenty to say, but it seems wrong to tell him any of it. “Sure.” You pick it up to examine the damage; Arthur walks back over to the table, but doesn’t sit down. 

He looms over you, his jaw set, and hands clenched as if holding himself in check. When you meet his gaze, though, you see a directness there, a plain need for closeness.

So you meet him there. It’s a simple thing to do, though your heart is pounding, being forward like this. 

You stand and he’s still much taller than you. Finally you reach your hand up to his cheek. He stiffens before his eyes slip closed and he lets out a shaky sigh at the touch.

When he looks at you again, he pulls you in, embracing you with a few gruff, muttered words as he brushes your hair out of his eyes. _Thank you_ is all you make out before he kisses you with a dangerous sort of desperation. He strokes your hair, his other arm wraps around your waist. 

Arousal floods your senses. You moan to him when he breaks the kiss to nuzzle your neck, though you’re not exactly sure what you’re trying to convey except _more._

_Please._

Pressed against him, you feel the hard line of his erection, reach down to palm him through his trousers. He groans, grinding against your hand for a moment, but then rasps “later.” His beard is coarse against your skin. “We’ll have time later.”

The two of you travel to your bedroom in fits and starts, punctuated by more kissing, and by the time you’re there, a low, insistent need hums in your core. 

The only thing Arthur is quick about is undressing you. He does it efficiently, pausing only to ask if you’re too cold. 

No, you answer, breathless. A little flustered at the exposure, and he can’t even be bothered to take off his boots before arranging you on your bed, and rather gingerly crawling over you. The bed dips under his weight. 

“Is this later?” you ask, eager and unashamed.

He smiles-- “not yet, darlin’”-- kisses you again. He takes his time with everything else, delighting in the softness of your hair and skin, and murmuring praise when he feels your emboldened touch. His shoulders fascinate you. Everything about him does at the moment, really, but they are in reach, as are his arms. He’s gone and rolled up his shirtsleeves and that’s some of his only bare skin available to you, whereas he’s currently kissing your tits and it _tickles_ , goddamnit, and you don’t mean to dig your nails into his forearm--

He grunts, and squeezes too hard, but it feels good.

“Fuck!” is your way of telling him, in so many words.

He looks up at you quizzically, realizes you’re okay, and chuckles. “Thought I was the one with no manners.” And he goes back to enjoying you at his leisure, slowly but surely, your ribs and stomach and hip bones, until he’s kneeling on the floor, his big, blunt-fingered hands spreading your thighs. 

“Arthur?” You ask, unable to hide the tremble in your voice. What is he doing? 

“Hmm?” He nuzzles the inside of your left knee, and a jolt of pleasure shoots true to your core. 

It is strange to trust him, though you do. His wary vulnerability made that easy enough, but now he’s nuzzling your thighs, telling you how soft and good you feel, edging closer and closer to your cunt.

“Wh-what are you…?” 

He answers, chooses his moment to kiss you there and-- _oh_. 

You give a helpless whimper, and clutch at his arm, which he’s wrapped around and under your leg. His hand rests flat, holding your hips down. He luxuriates in you, even as you arch to his mouth, lapping at the sensitive flesh, building you higher and brighter until you think you might burn up. 

All the time gone, and he returns for this. You like seeing his faded-gold hair between your thighs; you twist your fingers in it when words fail you, and his eyes slip closed. He moans. Doesn’t lift his mouth, just moans at the touch, expressing his enjoyment of you by swirling his tongue. Beneath that, though, you hear an urgency, a base need.

He presses one finger into you, slowly, then a second. You keen at the sensation, one hand grasping his corded forearm and the other fisted in the blanket. Say his name again, and he only replies _you taste good, sweet, fucking perfect_ and his voice goes muffled as he buries his face in your cunt once more. 

Each broad swipe of his tongue is wonderful, you don’t quite know what he’s doing, but really, you do, and it’s exquisite. You lift your hips to his mouth, as much as he allows. Can’t quite catch your breath. Not with the conflagration of pleasure he’s stoking in you; he _wants_ you to fall apart. 

So you do. It coalesces until every sense bursts with something sublime. You ride it, wondering what he must think, but then register, distantly, that he’s drinking your ecstasy while you clamp your legs around his head, and he doesn’t stop until after you release your hold on him. 

He withdraws, but doesn’t go far, doesn’t get up. Only wipes his mouth. You get the impression he’s studying you, taking in your flushed skin and deep drawn breath.

“When’s ‘later’?” You ask him when he’s stripped down and crawled in bed with you. “Can I ever see what’s in that journal?”

Draping an arm around you, he pulls you closer, and you feel his arousal still, though his voice is low and drowsy. “Sure you can. Tomorrow.”


End file.
